A Noire Affair
by itshardtostealfatkids
Summary: As a series of connected murders sweep Amestris, Detective Roy Mustang and his team must work to crack the case. But as they dig deeper and deeper, they uncover something much more malevolent. How much will they risk as they stand to lose their jobs, trust, and even their lives? (A 'noire' AU! Hope you give it a try! Also Royai)
1. Prologue

**Hi all! **

**So, I can't promise much in the way of updating, what with school and the continuation of other stories and stuff and practices upcoming, but I'll give it what I got! And if you want to read, then I commend you! ^_^**

**Anyways, this is based of a fanart picture by this artist: climbingonroofs on tumblr. (A beautiful picture)And I hope you like it!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except this story.**

**Enjoy!**

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**Prologue**

****Amestris was a city of unfiltered candescence. In the darkest night, the bulbs of lamps and streetlights illuminated the air, never allowing a good citizen to walk the paving stones with a speck of uneasiness or a hint of doubt. They would never worry about being crept up on or stalked, not when they had that yellow-white light to protect them. If the sun was a god, the lightbulbs were angels watching over them. They were safe.

But the brightest light cast the darkest shadow.

Happy little citizens didn't know that. They were too wrapped up in their shimmering gowns, the honey laughter of their children, the mountain of paperwork in the office, and the unimportant affairs of their day-to-day lives.

A man swathed in black hustled along a backstreet, sweat drenching his brow and forehead. He longed to turn and look over his shoulder, but his will wouldn't dare it. She could be there. Hell, she _was_ there. He knew it.

_That bitch!_ he cursed as he tightened the jacket around his body. He'd been dooped and he knew it and no amount of begging or smart-assing could save him from what would eventually befall him.

But still he ran.

His legs began to slow, his chest aching for a rest. Cutting into a darker alcove, between the walls of a brick building, he drew his gun out from under the leather of the coat, pressing his back to the wall, watching. Aiming.

Footsteps drew near. The little _click click_ of boots drove him insane as they came ever closer, the heels digging into the pavement.

A body stood at the end of the alcove, watching him curiously. A garbled sound choked out from between his lips.

"Hey...you okay?" the body asked.

The man in black was relieved to find it was not a woman's voice, but a man's.

"I-I'm alright, yes." The man in black lowered his gun, tucking it out of sight so as not to alert this newcomer. "Thank you."

"You look like you need some help."

"No, I'm quite alright."

"Nonsense," the body waved, flicking his fingers in dismissal. "I've got a nice little inn you can stop at for a while, take a rest if you need."

The man in black thought a moment. While his better judgement insisted he stay alone and out of sight, the promise of a warm bed and food and maybe a little protective company was just too alluring.

"Sure," he agreed, stepping forward. Tucking the gun away, he emerged, joining the newcomer. He took a good look at this stranger as they began walking. His hair was long, hanging in black tendrils off his head, almost like octopus tentacles. The eyes were small as the stranger stared down at him, teeth barred in a smile and though he was certain this newcomer was a man, it had an almost androgynous look.

"So, what's your name?" the stranger asked.

"Charles Violeta," the man in black introduced.

"Ah! You're name's familiar!" the stranger burst, looking at him ravenously.

Charles gulped. "R-really?" He tried to maintain his composure. "Where?"

"The papers," the stranger replied.

Charles only nodded.

As they continued walking, the stranger inquired about his purpose, hiding in this dank and dark alley. "You know," he had said, "this place is incredibly dangerous."

"Yes, I'm well aware," Charles laughed nervously. The words spilled from his mouth unmonitored. "I'm...running from someone."

"Interesting," the stranger growled.

The stranger ceased his walking, and Charles took just a few more steps, halting as a cold chill ran through his spine. Turning on his heel, he stared down a barrel of a handgun. His hand flew to retrieve his own.

"Ah ah ah," the stranger tutted, cocking the gun, the smile on his face malicious as the devil's. "I can't let you escape so fast. I know someone who'd just love to take a taste of you."

Charles shook, holding his hands up as a plea. "P-p-please! Take what you w-want. Just t-take my mon-money. I don't w-want to die. I d-dont..."

The stranger rolled his eyes. "Quit sniveling."

The shot rang out as smoke poured from the barrel. Charles Violeta sunk to the ground, the blood pooling around his body as he clutched at his chest.

Her heels tacked the ground definitively, Charles eyes widening as he watched her- _that bitch_- walk from an alley and lay a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Excellent job, Envy," the woman congratulated.

"My pleasure, Lusty," the stranger replied joyously, stuffing the gun away, smiling as if he had actually done some act of _good. _

__Charles whimpered as her eyes fell on him.

She stuck her foot out, rolling him over with her boot effortlessly. Flicking back the front of his jacket, she fished a slip of paper out from his hidden breast pocket. Unfolding it and reading the contents printed in black, she grinned.

"Thank you for your cooperation," she said, taking the gun from 'Envy'. Cocking it and aiming it at his head, she pouted with the sensuality she was infamous for. "But we won't need your services any longer."

And with that, she pulled the trigger and Charles Violeta was no longer.

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**So, that was just the prologue and I hoped it peaked your interests and what not! ^_^ **

**And feedback is always appreciated! **

**Peace, L.**


	2. The Man in Black

**Hello hello! **

**Thanks to those who read (and reviewed!). It means the world to me! Anyway, I'm not totally sure where it is I'm going with this but I'll figure it out along the way. ^_^**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story.**

**Enjoy!**

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**One: The Man In Black**

****In his twenty-nine years of life, Detective Roy Mustang knew very little.

He believed he knew a great deal, and perhaps he did, though they were menial, trivial little things. Like what ingredients a human body consisted of- something you could read and easily memorize out of a text book. Or how to equate the square area of a crime scene. Or how to tell if someone was lying to him in the midst of an interrogation.

What he did know, however, was, added up, very little. There was a difference between being knowledgable and knowing, and he knew that.

For instance, he _knew_ his team was undeniably loyal, like a pack of dogs obeying the laws of only one alpha male. He knew that Jean Havoc would never double-cross him, that Heymans Breda and Vato Falman would never doubt any orders they were given, and that littlest Kane Fury would never even dream of speaking ill of him.

He also knew how he liked his coffee, that the most expensive suit that hung in his closet was untouched, and hopefully it would remain that way, as it was reserved for funerals, that the pain from the Ishvalan War of Extermination would never fully ebb...

But if he knew anything at all, it was Riza Hawkeye. His right-hand. The so-called "_greater woman behind the great man._" He knew the way she looked, the way she breather, spoke, the amount of time she took when stacking paperwork, the way she wrapped her dog's leash twice around her hand, where she kept her emergency gun, how tense she became when they were in potentially life-threatening situations, how strong she was, how vulnerable she could sometimes feel, the way she looked at him from her desk when she was feeling impatient, the way she felt when she was in his embrace... Literally everything he could hope to know of her, he irrevocably knew.

But despite this expansive knowledge of the very few, he knew what a dead body looked like.

And this was a dead body; he was damn sure of it.

"That's the seventh this week, Detective," Jean Havoc mused, his words curling out along with the smoke from his cigarette. The man sprung up from his crouching position and he let the tarp flutter back over the marred face.

"Two bullet wounds," Breda read off of his notepad. "One in the left pectoral. The other in the head."

Roy looked down at the lump under the tarp with a deep crease in his brow. "Was there any indication that this was another copy killing?"

Breda flipped through his book, only to be promptly interrupted by Fury. "Sir, the mark was carved into the stomach."

Mustang exchanged a curious look with Hawkeye before nodding to Havoc, signaling to remove the tarp once more. With a sigh, the blonde bent over and yanked the fabric unceremoniously from the deceased's lifeless body.

Roy Mustang's team clustered around the body, waiting to examine the supposed mark as the raven-haired man slipped a glove over his fingers. Without any hesitation, he peeled away the jacket, unbuttoned the tweed vest and the white button-up, and slid the stained undershirt up his gut. And there it was, without any shame, the dark rust of dried blood carved into his stomach.

"Damn," Mustang sighed, letting the fabrics go.

Fury drew his camera out of his bag. "For the books, sir," he informed before snapping a photo of it.

The mark was carved by a knife, a large circle that took up nearly the entire canvas of skin. A crude dragon's head was carved at a point on the circle, mouth agape as it swallowed it's own tail. In the center the word 'SEPTEM' was scrawled out.

"Septem," Breda spoke. "Hey, that's different from the others."

"Yeah," Havoc agreed. "What was the other one? Polka? Nah...Porka? Pork...hole?"

"_Peccata_," Riza Hawkeye corrected matter-of-factly.

"Right," Jean burst, snapping his finger in approval. "_Peccata_."

"And '_Mortalia_'," Vato reminded.

"What the hell kind of messed up language are these goons using?" Roy inquired, arms crossed over his chest. His team stood in silence a moment, before he let a bought of hot air out in a deep exhale. "Come on," he waved. "Cover that thing up until the coroner gets here. We don't need anyone sneaking around to see a corpse."

"Yeah, yeah," Havoc sang, covering the body with the tarp.

It was Hawkeye's duty to contact the coroner, and within a matter of minutes, the 'professionals' were on the scene, relieving Roy Mustang's team as they loaded the body onto a stretcher, and the six detectives packed their notes and equipment away for the day.

The agency was established only a decade prior, though the building it was stationed in had been in Roy's family for a few generations. His beloved Madame Christmas had bequeathed the two-story, yet small, building to him when he graduated from the academy. While he vehemently disagreed and tried to insist that it was too grand a gesture she told him, "Nonsense. I've got another place for my girls farther uptown. For my only boy, you get your own space."

The team slowly filed inside, peeling away the layers of coats and hats as they retired to their desks. Roy Mustang had an office to himself on the second floor, where there was only his space and a room with a table and a small stove for late-night detail. The bottom room took up the entire floor, save for a single bathroom.

Havoc propped his legs up on his desk, lighting a fresh cigarette as he reviewed the previous cases. "Yeah, see?" he asked the others, blowing a cloud of smoke out before he began speaking again. He set the photos Fury had taken out in a haphazard order, clumping them together by name. There were ten victims in the month of April: six men, four female. And their most recent, Mister Charles Violeta, made eleven.

Roy leaned on Havoc's desk, peering down and examining the mark left on the stomachs. All identical, done by the hand, but with different words every now and again. '_Septum,_' '_Mortalia_,' '_Peccata_,' '_Iusta_,' and on only one female body, '_Incruentus_.'

"It's obviously serious, boss," Breda informed.

"I'm aware of that," Roy affirmed, scrutinizing the pictures, looking like he hoped they would divulge the information willingly. "But these words are important. Perhaps they could hint at who's behind all this..."

"Or perhaps it's a phrase," Riza stated. Roy examined her, watching her face contort as she ran a finger over the female labeled '_Incruentus_.' "There's obviously something we're missing here. A key or some sort."

"Right. Well, until someone else croaks, that's our job," Roy states firmly. "We find out where these words come from and why the hell they've ended up on the stomachs of eleven of Amestris's finest."

_.Siste._

__The first victim was a man named Frederick Jay. He had been a wealthy man who lived in a well-to-do, uppity neighborhood in Amestris. His death came as a shock to everyone, unnerving all those who slept in neat and spacious brownstones. When it was just one and the mark hadn't become a serial number, they believed the targets were just the rich, like a mugging gone wrong. And such a trend continued through the second victim, Gordon Quinn, who owned a bank. The third victim was well-off, too: a stout and angry tightwad named Armando Baxter.

It wasn't until the fourth victim, a prostitute named Carmela Appachio, was found in a slum with the same marking, did they realize the murders weren't necessarily specific.

The fifth was again richer, though she didn't earn as lofty a salary as the prior men. Her name was Amanda Sweets and she was found sitting with her hand over her stomach in Amestris's park.

The sixth was a poor butcher named Zachary Black, who's mark had been carved with his own steak knife. The seventh was a man who lived with his rich parents, who went by the name Dino Gosling. The eighth was a middle-aged woman who ran a financially unstable flower shop, known as Erica "Mama" Francis. The final woman to be maimed was the sister of a recently convicted burglar, seventeen-year-old Veronica Abbernathy; the youngest of all the victims.

The remaining men had been Pip Redmond, a man who made a living repairing glasses, Steven Brock, who dealt drugs inside of his ramshackle home on the outskirts of the city, and finally, Charles Violeta, who worked in the largest firm in Amestris as a high-profile lawyer.

Roy Mustang sat, lamenting over the random and connection-less as the bulb of light in his office flickered tiredly.

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**So, tada! I hope I can update the chapters this frequently, but no promises. Thanks again to the people reading! Makin' it worth it.**

**And I'm sure the words in the "weird language" aren't too hard to figure out for some... ^_^**

**Peace, L.**


	3. Lessons in Translation

**Hey people of Fanfiction!**

**Not much to say beside thanks for reading and I don't own anything except the story and the computer I'm typing on.**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter Two: Lessons in Translation**

Riza Hawkeye was arguably the most efficient woman in Amestris.

As opposed to her beloved Detective Mustang who was, just as arguably, the creator of the word 'procrastination'.

As Mustang's team wasted time playing cards and Jean smoked his wretched cigarettes without opening any windows, and Fury talked endlessly about the technological advances that were being made these days, she sat dutifully at her desk, pouring over text after text, attempting to decipher the gruesome carvings that were cut into skin as if they were jack-o-lanterns on All Hallows Eve.

Finally, after Breda and Fury and Falman and Havoc had vacated the premises to go home, go to bed, to go shopping for a relative's birthday, and go on yet another hook-up date, respectively, Riza adjusted the papers on her desk, lining them into a neat pile, one right on top of the other. The case files and her research had finally been copied onto note paper that would make any specialist jealous. She couldn't help feel a little tinge of pride as she pushed away from her mahogany desk, slipping the sheets into a leather case, folding the brass buckle over the flap carefully, sure to keep them from falling loose and to the wayside. Stretching her arms over her head, she acknowledged the fact that she was alone in the downstairs of the office, her desk lamp the only source of light in the dark space of stale cigarette smoke and dried ink.

The only other occupant could be heard upstairs, the rattling of a porcelain mug and silver spoon flowing down the staircase carelessly. Wrapping her trench coat around herself, she picked up her hat and the case file, climbing the stairs to deliver them to her detective.

She found him sitting at the tiny metallic table in the corner of the room, stirring warmed milk in his cup. His face lit up at the sight of her but as he opened his mouth to speak, Riza tossed the case file onto the table.

"What's this?" he asked, exchanging his possession of the mug for the clasp of the leather holder.

"The case file, sir," she replied.

He snickered quietly as he sifted through each sheet of paper. "You know, you don't have to call me 'sir'. That's only for when the others are around."

Riza's face softened as she pulled the spare chair out for herself. "Force of habit," she apologized, setting her hat on the tabletop. She smirked. "Roy."

His dark eyes flicked up to hers, the smile on his face curling into an admiring, lovable grin. She loved that goofy smile of his; the one that was genuine.

Looking back at the words meticulously scrawled onto the paper, his eyebrows shot up. "You've deciphered them?"

"Yes," she nodded, reaching for his mug and stirring absently. "They're Latin phrases."

"How the hell did you figure it out so quickly?" Roy inquired, eyes scanning her writing.

"My father," she replied. The simple mentioning of her bloodline drew his attention. "The language sounded familiar," Riza continued. "But I couldn't recall where from. It wasn't until I pulled out an almanac of languages did I find something else in Latin; something my father had written...on my back."

"Your back?"

"Yes, si-...Roy."

The mere mentioning of the defacing of her back at the hands of her obsessed father was something that held a familiar uneasiness between the two of them.

Berthold Hawkeye was a detective as well, or at least, he had been until the murder of Riza's own mother. The insanity it thrust upon Berthold had driven him to find her murderer, since the agency he worked for filed it a cold case with an untraceable assailant. After being discharged from the force, he became secluded and worked tirelessly to find the culprit. When Riza had reached the age of thirteen, Roy Mustang was brought into the boring hum-drum of her life to become his apprentice (and work on aiding Berthold with his obsession, an ulterior motive on the master's part). After Roy had gone on to study further at an academy, Berthold Hawkeye laid his daughter down on her stomach and defiled her back with ink and a brush of needles. Every stab into her flesh was painful, but nothing compared to the betrayal and inhumanity she endured. After returning to one another's side, Roy was exposed to the chaotic synchronization of the murder notes of her mother. It was there in maroon, every detail permanently engraved, the burden and horrors of the gruesome slaughter forever etched into the back of Berthold's only daughter.

"See," she began, pointing to the paper, "_septem_ in Latin means 'Seven'. That's purely phonetic. Then there's _peccata_, which is on my back."

Roy cocked his head as he listened, trying to remember the word's placement on her skin.

"_Peccata_," Riza informed quite gravely, "means 'sin'." The edge in her voice passed as her finger swept over the words she herself had scribed. "_Mortalia_ was quite easy to decipher. It means 'mortal'...kind of obvious."

He chuckled. "A little moronic on our part."

"_Iusta _means 'just'. I suppose it means something like 'deserved' in this case. And finally, there's _Incruentus_ which puzzled me. It's Latin for 'without bloodshed'."

"_Without_?" he echoed. "Are you sure you didn't just...misinterpret?"

"Positive," she stated bluntly. "I was just as confused as you were. I looked it up in a translation dictionary. _Incruentus _indeed means 'without bloodshed'. I looked up 'bloodshed' on it's own just to be sure. The word was...familiar."

"It's on your..." he trailed off, not needing to ask. He knew the answer as well as he knew her face.

Riza nodded slightly. "_Caede_ means 'bloodshed', not _incruentus_."

Roy sighed, leaning back in his chair and letting the papers lay sprawled out on the linoleum top. "If this serialist could be any more...obscure..." He shook his head.

"It's murder, sir," she said softly, picking his hand up and setting the warm mug in the contours of his hand. Riza smiled gently at him, with a warmth never displayed in front of the others. "Did you expect it to be simple?"

As she plucked her hat up off the table, she exhaled deeply, turning towards the steep staircase. "Try to get some sleep," she coached. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait," he asked. His voice was so close, right in her ear, tickling the hairs on her neck as his breath brushed against them. As one arm snaked around her wait, the other reached up, undoing the clip that held her hair back. I came undone as he dropped the piece of metal down on the table, and pressed his lips against her neck. "It's just you and I. Stay a little longer."

"Sir," she sighed, shutting her eyes. He gently rocked their bodies back and forth, lavishing her throat with affectionate pecks. "We really shouldn't."

"Everyone else has gone home, detective," he murmured, hands feeling around the knot over her abdomen, slowly undoing the strap that held her coat shut. "Besides, there's a murderer on the loose. I couldn't let you out into the night alone."

A tiny smile graced her face as she tipped her head to rest on his shoulder. The jacket that hugged her body tightly was undone and being pushed off of her arms by two strong hands, coated in blood long washed away. As his kisses grew more fervent and the coat tumbled to her feet in a heap, her fingers wove themselves through his dark hair, lightly tugging and scratching. His own palms ghosted under the thick material of her sweater, feeling the soft skin he coveted each and every night, tracing and kneading circles over the unmarred canvas.

"Sir," she muttered.

Riza could feel the smile pressing itself against her ear as he spoke. "Ah ah. What did I say about calling me by my first name? Riza?"

Her heart lurched. Something about the way he uttered her name. Not Hawkeye, not Detective, but Riza. _Riza_. It had such a fineness when he said it.

As he nibbled at her ear, she groaned impossibly, relinquishing and letting the letters spill out of her mouth. "_Roy_."

However, a sudden bang did not go unnoticed. While Riza had the eyes of the hawk, Roy Mustang had the ears of a dog.

He drew his lips away from her skin, casting wary looks around the room. "Did you hear that?" he inquired.

Reluctantly, she pulled his hands out form under her sweater. "Perhaps someone's here, sir."

The pair stood in silence a moment, waiting for the sound to arise again.

"Nothi-," he began, only to be silenced by the reprise of a sudden thud.

"The window," Riza said quickly, holding her hand out to Roy. Quickly, he thrust the pistol into her hand; she was always twice the shot he was.

Thrusting the window pane open, she swept her eyes over the darkened streets, gun aimed to disarm. After a moment of vicious silence, she sighed, un-cocking the gun. Riza relinquished the weapon back to Roy, who soundlessly tucked it into his holster. "Nothing, sir. There's nobody."

Roy glared at the dark window suspiciously, the words on his lips, though he was unable to speak them.

Riza brushed her hand across his cheek, placating his nerves. "It was nothing," she murmured.

He sighed, a gentle, wary smile ghosting over his face. "Come on," he goaded. "I'll walk you home."

As she gathered her coat into her arms, she nodded. "Yes, sir."

Though as the two exited the office, both were perfectly aware that his words meant something else entirely.

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**Sorry I've been sort of neglecting this. -_-**

**But anyways, fanfiction decided to delete half the chapter (and I just saw an emotionally devastating Les Mis) so if it sucks, sorry about that. **

**Hope you liked it anyway! ^_^**

**Peace, L.**


	4. Plan of Attack

**Hiya guys! **

**So, the chapters are a little short, I know, but I'm still working on developing the story, yo. ^_^**

**Anywho, **

**I own nada!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Plan of Attack**

In the darkness of Amestris, people steered clear of the streets at night. The murder-spree that turned people into human carving stones made clubs virtually vacant, restaurants close up shop early, and the lights in apartment windows burn brighter.

The only thing that moved at night, with no inhibitions or worries, was the murderer himself.

Or, I suppose you could say, _them_selves.

The man with the tentacle-esque hair took a swift right into an alley, holding the jacket collar over his nose. The smell of the festering garbage cans was sickening but the hideout was windowless and that spared them all from the putrid stench. He took the stairs that went underground, pulling back the metal door and slipping inside.

"Envy," a soft, seductive voice called. Envy removed his coat, hanging it on a hook. Lust sat on a cushy chair at a round table, holding a sophisticatedly patterned glass in her gloved fingers. Under the light of the overhead lamp, her face was shadowed, but her eyes glowed like that of a cat's. Her dark lips curled into a feline smile at the sight of her comrade.

"Lust-y," he grinned, pulling out a chair at the table. "I need a drink."

As he reached across the table to grab a clean glass and the bottle of whiskey, a thin blade swept down, seemingly out of nowhere, stopping short of just cutting his fingers off. Envy's hand retracted and his brows furrowed over his nose.

"Wrath," Lust sighed, "there's no need to be so temperamental."

"He can drink away after he's reported something of use this time," Wrath's deep baritone retorted. Sliding the sword back into his hilt, the third man in their coalition of killers bent into the light. His black hair was slicked back, his eyepatch was resting comfortably over his left eye, and a crisp police captain's uniform covered him from head to toe. "So, what have you gathered for us?"

"Nothing much," Envy replied, propping his legs on the table, tipping back onto the legs of his chair. "That Hughes fellow is incredibly boring."

Lust sighed. "That's all?" she asked slowly.

"Let's see," the tentacle-haired man began. "Maes Hughes wakes up, goes to work at the Eight Street precinct, does paperwork, makes numerous phone calls to various locations across the city just to spew dribble about his precious little girl and wife, goes to eat lunch at Gorgino's at twelve noon precisely. Afterwards, he returns to work until six in the afternoon, where he takes a cab home to eat dinner with his family in their apartment on West Lynne Avenue."

"_Boring_," a fourth voice coos from the darkness. With a swift kick of the leg, the legs of Envy's chair snapped, sending the androgynous man falling onto his back. Envy stared up at the face of his assailant, grunting at the familiar features.

"So nice to see you, Greed," Envy drew, sarcasm lacing every letter.

"Now, boys, there's no need for violence," Lust chimed.

"Sorry, Lust, Greed boisterously pronounced, tucking a finger under her chin. "Couldn't help myself."

She swatted his hand away, flicking her wrist, revealing a blade she kept tucked away in her sleeve. As the sun-glassesed Greed took a seat in a spare chair, she set the dagger on the table, turning back to Envy. "So, there's nothing you have on Hughes? Perhaps it's time we move on to another candidate..."

"Well, there _was_ one little detail I thought we might find...useful," Envy practically sang.

"Is that so?" Wrath asked, obviously annoyed by Envy's mere presence.

"Yes, _Wrath_, it is so." Envy grinned a toothy, malicious grin. "You'll be happy to know that several of the calls Mr. Hughes made was connected to one office in particular: the office of Mustang Investigations."

Closing her eyes, Lust let herself revel in that bit of information.

The door promptly swung open, a tiny figure of a young boy striding in. "Welcome back, Pride," Wrath greeted, with uncharacteristic kindness.

"Hello, Father," the young child replied. He slid the door shut with immaculate ease before joining the others at the table.

"And what have you been up to all day?" the eye-patched man asked.

"I've been doing some reconnaissance," the youngling boasted.

"Thank you for being one of the only members in the Sins that has actually shown a notion of initiative," Lust said. "What have you uncovered for us, Pride?"

"I think you'll find my...discovery quite useful," Pride smirked. "You see, our little Mustang seems to have a very _close_ friend."

"A lover?" Lust asked, eyes widening. "Gluttony, you incompetent little-"

At the mentioning of his name, the sixth member of their carnivorous group rattled the bars of his cage. With a whimper, he asked, "Can I eat now?"

Lust sighed. "No, Gluttony. Not yet. When you learn to do your job correctly, and once you know what you _can _and _cannot _eat, you may come out." As the fat, plump little man fell back into a heap in the corner of his prison, Lust turned back to the child.

"Mustang's got a girlfriend, eh?" Wrath asked.

"Please, enlighten us on the situation," Envy pried.

"You know the young woman on their team? The blonde woman?" Pride questioned.

"Greed," Lust snapped, "what was her name?"

"Riza Hawkeye," he smirked. "_She _has got a tight little-"

"Silence," Wrath cut. "We don't need your vulgarity."

"She's his friend?" Lust asked, placing a certain emphasis on the word 'friend'.

"Are you _sure_?" Wrath further inquired.

"I hid outside the office windows when they were the last two left. And he walked into her apartment with her."

Lust sighed. "Pride, that doesn't constitute them being involved with one another."

"Perhaps not," Pride agreed, clasping his hands behind his back. A knowing smile ripped across his face. "But when he has his hands up her shirt, I think that means something else entirely."

The only woman at the table thought a moment, her lips turning into a sickeningly twisted smile.

"So, what do you think, Lust-y?" Envy asked. "Think we oughta switch candidates?"

"No," a foreign voice called from a darkened doorway. The six in the room turned, looking with respect towards their leader, their founder, their _father_. "I say we utilize both of Mustang's relationships. How do you ensure that a horse will die?"

The others blankly looked at him until the Father spoke again.

"You take out the things that hold him up."

_.Siste._

Riza's eyes slowly fluttered open, half of her vision obscured by a pillow.

She groaned as the sunlight flooded in through the slits in her curtains, still early and pale. Rolling away from the offending light, she expected to take a few minutes to herself to spread out on the sheets. Instead, she lightly bumped the strong body next to her. Her golden eyes shot open as she stopped and watched the shirtless man that slept beside her snore and drool on her spare pillow.

With a sigh, she let her head fall deeper into the pillow. She ran her fingers through her bangs, rubbing her forehead.

It happened again.

Riza Hawkeye had promised herself that she wouldn't let it happen again. She wouldn't allow herself to feel pleasure; not when she had caused so much pain. But still, even after she had made the vow to herself- the one that forbade her from being felt by her co-worker, the man who she felt such burning love for- she insisted on being weak-willed and selfish and she let him into her apartment, and shortly thereafter, her bed.

Sitting up, she realized she too was without clothes. _So it wasn't just a sleepover_, she smirked with a bitter sweetness.

She moved to be sure she wouldn't wake him, and plucked up the white button-up he had been wearing the night before from the wooden floor. From there, she pulled a mug out of the cabinet and put a kettle on the stove.

As she stared into the cup, mentally berating herself for ignoring her atonement promises, she felt his presence sneaking up on her.

"Morning," he chirped as she turned to face him. He stuck his hands in the pockets of the pants he had wrangled on only a second before. Riza clutched the front of the dress shirt shut. She always felt unnecessarily naked when she stood before him.

"Good morning," she said as professionally as possible, as if they were meeting in the office.

He quirked his eyebrow, unable to help the smile. Withdrawing his hands, his fingers snaked down, reaching for the spot where she clasped the shirt. Undoing her hold, he drank in the sight of her body. Riza only stared at her feet.

"Riza," he muttered, concerned. "What's the matter." The kettle's whistle came to her rescue and she slipped away from him to tend to it. "Riza," he spoke again.

"I think you'd better get going, sir," she said, though her heart ached in protestation. "We have a busy day today."

A bit taken aback, he sighed, shutting his eyes in annoyance. "You always do this," he exhaled.

"Do what, sir?" she asked, not facing him.

"Kick me out! Push me away! Riza, you won't even call me by my first name," he burst. His voice softened. "What are you punishing yourself for?"

"Ishval," she said, her voice sharp as a knife. Turning to face him, her eyes glowered. "I don't deserve to feel what I feel when we're together."

"If that's your logic, than neither do I," he says. "Or Armstrong. Or Maes with his wife. Would you wish them unhappiness and the pain of being unable to love anyone?"

"Of course not," Riza began harshly.

"Then don't do it to yourself!" he snapped.

Setting the kettle on a cool burner, she looked at him, eyes dripping with sadness and guilt.

Roy took a cautious step closer, speaking in a quieted voice. "You've been through hell. Your own father defaced your back, your mother was murdered, and you were thrust into a war at a younger age than the rest of us. If anyone _deserves_ to let themselves be loved, it's you."

With a slight smile, she turned back to her tea, pouring the water into the mug. "You can stay the night again, if you want to...Roy."

Behind her tattooed back, Roy beamed with satisfaction. Sweeping up from behind, he held her shoulders and planted a kiss on the crown of her head. "I should go get some fresh clothing on. See you at the office."

"Roy!" she called after him as he donned his jacket over his bare torso. He looked up from the buttons that busied his fingers. "Your shirt..."

"Keep it," he grinned goofily, patting his fedora atop his head. He smashed his lips against her's once more before ducking out of her apartment door.

As she set a frying pan over the flame of a burner and cracked an egg yolk over it, she grinned despite herself. "Idiot," she murmured.

_.Siste._

"Roy Mustang!" a voice called, knocking the door open, the silver bell atop the threshold being nearly thrown off the hinge.

The members of Mustang Investigations looked up from their work. Mustang set down a sheet of paper, groaning audibly. "Maes," the detective growled. "What a surprise."

"A good one, I hope," the officer chimed. "So, what's my best buddy been up to, huh?"

"Solving murder cases, Hughes," Roy replied. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"No, sir!" Maes cheered. Adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose, he raised an eyebrow. "I'm on my lunch break." Grabbing hold of Mustang's bicep, he tugged, waving over his shoulder to Riza, who sat at her post like a dutiful soldier. "I'm borrowing your boss for lunch, Detective Hawkeye. Hope you don't mind."

As Roy shot her a pleasing look, she smiled with a pinch of smugness to herself. "I don't mind at all. Enjoy yourselves."

Maes laughed boisterously as his friend strained against his grip.

"Detectives Havoc and Hawkeye," Roy ushered in before he was unceremoniously swept out the door. "Hold the fort down."

"Yes, sir," the two replied in unison.

And with that, Roy Mustang was kidnapped by Chief Officer Maes Hughes, forced to enjoy a delicious lunch against his will.

* * *

**Phew! Much longer than the other chapters. I just want to thank paracutiesfor reviewing. It means the world! (and I looked up Fury's name! You were right! It's _Fuery_, not Fury.) So that'll be changing in upcoming chapters. XD whoops..._  
_**

**Reviews are always appreciated! Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, L.**


	5. Love Marks

**Hey there, guys! ^_^**

**So, things in life are about to get pretty busy-especially with college fin-aid being due real soon. I hope you guys can be patient with me if I start slacking under the evil work weight of what's going on in school and work and what not.**

**I own nilch, besides the story, a'course!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Four: Love Marks**

"Let's see...could I get some...soup, a slice of apple pie, bread and butter, and a cup of coffee, please?" Maes asked, as the waitress scribbled these items down rapidly across a pad of paper.

"And for you?" the young woman asked, looking down at Roy expectantly.

"Coffe is fine, thanks," the detective replied. She nodded, casting a smile down at him before bouncing off.

"Hey, how about that one Roy?" the glasses-man asked, nodding after her. "She seems pretty-"

"Young?" Mustang interrupted.

Maes chuckled. "I was going to say 'perky' but..." The police officer sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Roy, when are you going to find yourself a wife?"

Roy Mustang groaned. "Not this again, Hughes."

"Come on," his friend drew. "A man your age has to settle down at some point."

"It isn't like I'm fifty, Maes."

"I know, but don't you want a family?" Hughes flashed a shiny photograph of his wife and child, both smiling brightly in their blissful life. It was his weapon of choice.

"Maybe some day," Roy acknowledged. "But I have things I need to do first."

"Well, I don't see anything wrong with getting a little something on the side in the meantime," Maes poked, waving his fork in the direction of the waitress. Her long hair stretched down to her back, a light brownish red color, and her figure was quite appealing.

"Nah," the detective shook his head, fiddling with the placement of his hat on the table. "She isn't my type."

"Well, what _is_ your type?"

Just as Roy opened his mouth to explain himself, a light tapping sounded at the window beside where their table was stationed. Looking through the slightly smudged pane, the two men of the law were met with the faces of young men, just two, with blonde hair. The one in the red coat waved while his brother in a brown vest tried to shout his message through the glass.

"Oh no," Roy groaned. "Not those two."

"'Scuse me," the waitress pardoned, setting the cups of coffee in front of the two.

"Oh, and ma'am?" Maes Hughes asked, catching her by the sleeve. "There are two young boys coming in, the Elric Brothers, so if you would, could you show 'em to our table?"

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, nodding. "No problem."

"See?" Maes asked, holding his hand out desperately after she had gone out of earshot. "She's definitely ba-."

"Detective!" Edward Elric called, pulling a chair up to their table. Al pulled his over beside his older brother, though his method was much calmer and politer. "And Officer Hughes."

"Long time, no see, Elrichs," Maes greeted. "How've you two been?"

"We've just returned from Xing," Al explained.

"Al's _girlfriend_ out there was just dying to see him," Ed further elaborated, causing the younger brother to blush furiously.

"She...she isn't my girlfriend!" he began to protest.

"Yeah, yeah," Ed dismissed playfully. "And how've you been, Detective?"

"Fullmetal," Roy greeted brusquely.

"What's your problem?" Edward inquired, leaning on the chair back as he sat improperly on it. "I thought you'd be happy to see us again? After we saved your team member's ass and all."

"That'll always be appreciated, Fullmetal," the detective replied.

"Well then, what's the matter, Detective Mustang?" Al wondered.

Scooting in like an old gossip, Maes cupped his hand over his mouth, whispering loud enough for Roy to hear. "We were discussing the detective's love life."

Edward took the conspiratorial bait without batting an eyelash. He had been on the end of Roy's jokes when he was caught up in courting Winry, so he was more than happy to reciprocate the torture. Al, too, grinned, unable to feel relieved the subject of romance was finally falling upon someone else for a change.

"Oh really?" Ed cawed, eyes flashing mischievously.

"Yep," Maes nodded, sipping on his coffee. "I was trying to set up Roy with that waitress over there."

"The one who showed us in?" Al asked sweetly.

"You should go for her, Detective. From the way you're acting, it doesn't seem like you're getting much anyways," Ed added.

"Hey, how much I'm _getting _is none of your concern!" he shouted. Taking a moment to compose himself, Roy sighed. "As I had just finished explaining to Officer Hughes, she is _not_ my type."

"And like _I _was _asking_, what _is_ your type, Roy?" Maes prodded.

"A woman who's strong and thoughtful and doesn't hang on me like I'm a pole. Someone who doesn't bounce around so provocatively," Roy explained, thought he didn't mind the sight from time to time.

"What about physical features?" Ed questioned.

"Hair and eye color doesn't matter much, but I've always been a fan of blondes," he explained, taking a swig of scalding coffee.

After a moment of silence, Ed let out a thoughtful "huh."

The other three looked at him inquisitively. "Huh, _what_?" Roy asked, lips curling into a frown.

"Nothing," Edward affirmed lightly. "It's just that all of those qualities remind me of Detective Hawkeye."

Roy nearly choked on the coffee in his mouth. "_W-what_?"

Maes Hughes bellowed with laughter. "I had a feeling you two were attracted to each other, you sly dog, you."

"What are you _talking _about? Our relationship is strictly professional, Hughes," Detective Mustang insisted.

"Come on, Roy," Maes begged, leaning in, his voice lowering. "We've been friends forever. I can tell when you're lying and telling the truth."

Roy heaved a tremendous sigh. While he knew very well how much he wanted to expose their much-more-than-professional relationship, he knew she was still feeling quite guilty about it. Hell, they had argued about it just hours prior. "There's nothing going on between Hawkeye and I, Hughes. Get it out of your thick skull."

"If that's true, Detective," Ed began, "then what's that on your neck?"

A look of confusion passed over Roy's face, his hand flying to feel for something around his neck. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was then a memory surfaced; one of his beloved subordinate leaning down over him, the strands of her hair tickling his face and cheeks as she placed her lips on his neck, pulling and tugging quite lightly-

"It's a little love mark, Detective," Al giggled.

"Look at your face, Roy," Maes practically whooped. "You two _are_ together!"

Mustang gave a defeated sigh. "Maes, I-."

"I KNEW IT," Edward cheered, clapping his hands a few times. He held his palm out to Al as the younger boy fished around in his pocket. "That'll be twenty-five cens, Al."

"Yes, I know..." he replied with a deep exhale.

"Roy, why didn't you tell me sooner?" Maes asked. "How long has it been going on, huh? A month? A week? A _year_?"

Roy shrugged. "It wasn't any of your business, Hughes."

"Well, I'm glad for the two of you. You kids deserve each other," the chief congratulated.

The waitress approached them, holding two trays loaded with Officer Hughes's heavy lunch. Though Roy fervently hoped that the topic of his and Riza's personal affairs would evaporate once Maes's mouth was full of food, he knew his friend too well, and he endured the teasing and berating questions.

_.Siste._

"Hey, where ya' going so soon?"

The ebony-haired woman slinked away from the bed, holding a sheet over her bare form. She smiled down at the man in the bed, rolled up in the covers.

"I told you last night, I've got to get to work early," she spoke gently.

The man in bed propped himself up on his elbow. "I wish you could stay, gorgeous."

The woman huffed, a little laugh escaping her darkly-stained lips, the make-up slightly faded after a rather vigorous night. Crawling back across the bed, the woman ran her tongue along her lover's bottom lip. He wound his arms around her back, tracing circles into her perfect skin as their lips melded together heatedly.

"Sorry," she whispered, her forehead pressed against his. "Duty calls."

"Sure you don't want me to make you breakfast?"

"No, I really need to head out," the woman drew. As she dressed herself, the man in bed quirked his head.

"Hey," he mused, "nice tattoo."

The sultry woman ran her fingers over the tattoo, a winged snake curling around a heart, engraved in deep red between her breasts. "Thank you. Though I'm surprised you didn't say anything about it last night."

His eyes skitted down to her chest. "I was...distracted."

"Jean," she giggled before wrangling her sweater over her head. "See you tonight, sweetheart."

* * *

**Hey!**

**Sorry about the haitus. I'm trying harder to work on the gaps between my stories (they're all so neglected). -_-**

**I hope you guys liked this chapter! Thanks to everyone who reviewed and followed!**

**Peace, L.**


	6. Separate Tasks

**Hey! **

**I'm so glad there's a sudden influx of followers and readers, so I'll try to pick up on updating more (since it kills me when my favorite authors dont update). (Also if any of my Tokka-story followers are reading this, too, IM SO SORRY. I LOVE TOKKA BUT I LOST MY STEAM. Hopefully I'll pick those up too since summer break is approaching!) **

**Disclaimer: I own nada except the story!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Five: Separate Tasks**

A trembling woman held her shawl tighter in her hand, her limb bolted across her chest protectively.

She was alone in the street, her beige heels clicking against the neatly-kept sidewalk of Amestris. In the dim light of a streetlamp, she could see the singular green bench just ahead; the one she had been instructed to go to. The note was still un her breast pocket, a folded slip of paper with unfamiliar handwriting on it that simply said: "_Midnight, Green Bench, Apartment across from the Printer's, Bring the Black Book_."

She shook with every step that brought her closer to the bench. _God_, she thought, _this is wrong. So wrong, so wrong. Oh God, why. I'm going to throw up_...

The pallid light finally illuminated her face- the smallish nose, normally rosy cheeks that had become flushed in fear, and thin wire glasses- as she placed herself on the edge of the bench, looking up and down the darkened street anxiously.

A deep voice made her skin freeze in her veins, every muscle constricting as he spoke.

"Hey, sweetheart," the voice drew cooly.

"T-t-thomas," she stuttered, too terrified to look up at him. "W-what's this about?"

The man sat himself down beside her, his hands deep within his leather vest. He was so close the white fur trim of his hood brushed against her cheek.

"Sheska," he murmured, her finger reaching to touch her chin. He turned her face to look at him. "You shouldn't call me that any more."

The petrified young woman didn't speak.

"I think it's better if you call me by my real name: Greed," he smirked. Letting go of her, leaning back unceremoniously, his avaricious eyes watched the fourth-floor windows, silhouettes passing back and forth. "Did you bring what I asked?"

"Y-yes," she nodded. In her spare hand, she held out a black book with a silver latch, the journal shaking in her grasp. He took it from her quickly. He wasn't rough; merely confident.

Greed flipped through the pages. "This is it?"

"Y-yes, Tho...oh, uh, Greed," Sheska told him. The sinful word tasted poisonous on her mouth. It riddled her tongue with thoughts of lies and illegality.

"Good." Stretching his arms over the back of the bench, he sighed contently. "I love it when I get what I want."

The pair sat for a long time, neither of them looking at each other. Sheska busied herself with trying to keep the bile in her throat while he idly stared at the panes of the fourth floor. Finally, she dug her nails into the skin of her collar bone, steeling herself as she dared to speak.

"Greed, can I leave now?" Her voice was high and squeaky, quaking in his presence.

He chuckled. "I was wondering when you were gonna ask that." He leaned forward, resting on his forearms as he leant against his knees. He wanted a good look at her cute, chubby-cheeked face. "I'm afraid not, Sheska. I just have a few questions for you."

A feeling of panic flooded through her, but she nodded anyways. She didn't know how fast he could run, or if those pockets of his hid a gun or a knife. Her life wasn't worth the risk of flight. "O-okay."

"Alright," he nodded. "So, you work with Gracia Hughes, correct?"

"Y-yeah," Sheska confirmed.

"Where is that again?"

A bit offended she held her cloth-covered hand against her lips. "I must've told you a dozen times..."

He sighed. "Yeah, but would you mind telling me one more time? My memory isn't too solid."

"I work with her at the bookstore on Eighteenth Avenue," she repeated. It stung her pride a bit.

"Right, right. Did she ever talk to you about her husband?"

"Huh? Oh, you mean Maes?"

"That's him."

Sheska nearly groaned. "She never shuts up about him."

"What does she tell you?"

"Small things, little things. How his day went, how he treats their daughter like a princess..."

"Does she ever talk about a Detective Roy Mustang?"

Racking her brain, she finally shakes her head. "She doesn't," she relinquishes. "But I do remember a card. Yes, it was an order card. About...I think it was ordered a week ago, by a Mustang."

Greed's voice became lowly and serious. "What was the book?"

"I...I..."

"Sheska, you have a perfect memory," Greed growled. "That's why you were chosen."

"Chosen by who?"

"The title, Sheska," the man insisted, ignoring her plea.

The glasses-woman flinched, her eyes squeezing shut. "Translations!" she blurted. "It was, uh...it was a book for translating Latin."

Greed breathed a sigh of relief, closing his eyes and leaning back against the bench. "Good. They're piecing it together." He stood, peering at her in the yellowed light. "Not too quickly, I hope."

Sheska decided to bite her tongue; she was almost home free. But the presence of a sickly red liquid on his hand caught her eye as sweat trickled down her forehead. He noticed her gaze, looking at it himself and chortling. "Noticed this, huh?"

He waved his hand in the light above his head, admiring the way the candescence made the redness dance in his eyes. "Don't worry, this won't be you. We need you." His eyes gave her face a over over. "For now, anyways."

"W-who!" The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. He looked at her curiously. "Who's..."

"Oh." Greed rocked his head from side to side, clicking his tongue. "Know a guy by the name of Tucker?"

Sheska's eyebrows furrowed as she searched her mind. "Shou Tucker," she whispered. "Wha..."

Greed brandished his bloody hand. "Shou Tucker."

Sheska held her breath. The Tucker man had been into her shop many a time to pick up books on science and the anatomy of animals. Every so often he would bring his sweet little daughter and their monstrous dog so she could pick out a children's book. Hell, she had even exchanged many pleasantries with Shou Tucker. The thought that his blood inexplicably laced some man's hand made her sick to her stomach once more.

As Greed began to walk down the street, he stuck the fouled hand back into his leather vest. "Think about it Sheska. You're a bright girl. You and Shou Tucker had a lot more in common than you think."

Once he disappeared, Sheska doubled over, vomiting onto the sidewalk. "M-my nerves..." she muttered to herself. "They finally broke..."

Thomas...or Greed, rather, had seemed so nice. He flirted with her. He bought books she liked and knew. He brought her a rose. What was it all for then, if not for love? She was used. Tricked into playing some madman's game. The rings under her eyes were a testament to the sleep she had lost over the cryptic notes and midnight rendevouz and seemingly obscure requests.

The book though... Sheska wiped her mouth on the shawl, coughing as she cleared her throat. The book had to mean something. It wasn't a book from the shop like she had been ordered to steal for Greed so many times before. The journal was hers. She kept it in there, her information from every night spent in the warehouse...

"Dammit," she hissed, staggering to her feet. She glanced up at the apartment in front of her. "What the hell do they have to do with anything?"

She watched with momentary agony before she began walking home at the fourth floor windows, where Maes and Gracia Hughes put out the lights and went to sleep.

_.Siste._

"Books," Kane Fury said, grinning.

Roy Mustang blinked, turning and resting his elbows on his desk. "Excuse me?"

"Charles Violeta," Breda explained further. "He kept books."

"Wasn't he a lawyer?" Jean Havoc called from across the room.

"Yes," Roy Mustang nodded. "So what would he be keeping books for?"

"We haven't figured that much out yet, sir," Fury admitted. He dug into his pocket, pulling a plastic bag out of his trench coat pocket. He set the contents on his superior's desk. "These are the photos I took in Violeta's apartment."

Mustang took them out, fingering through each one. "Latin again?"

"Yeah," Breda nodded, "but we had them translated."

"They're numbers, sir. Well, numbers as in money," Fury added.

"What the hell was he keeping books for?" Mustang wondered aloud. He spread each photo out, examining the inky scrawling that the youngest detective had taken such care to photograph. Carefully, he tacked them into the wall where a web of photos, newspaper clippings, and string adorned the wall.

"We aren't entirely sure," Breda said. "But Fury's got the translations for you."

"Breda and I went ahead and cross-checked the names in the book to some of the victims, and you'll never guess-!" Mustang tossed a raised eyebrow over his shoulder as Fury's shoulders slumped forward.

"Let me," Vato Falman interrupted. "All their names are there?"

Mustang pressed his hand to his chin in thought. "No," he shook his head. "None match the first or surnames."

"Ah ah ah," Breda tutted. "That's where you're wrong, boss."

"They're there alright," Fury introduced slyly. "Violeta used anagrams."

Riza joined her detective at the wall, examining the freshly-tacked photographs.

"Gordon Quinn," she pointed out, her hand falling on the banker's scrambled up name.

"Victim number three," Roy muttered.

"Penroh Krebcst," Breda announced. "Otherwise known as Stephen Brock."

"Victim number eleven."

"And then, there's Rock Utsue, which we thought was interesting," Fury informed, not wanting to stop the roll he and Breda had currently fallen upon.

The rotund detective picked up where his little comrade had preluded. "We did a little research and it's an anagram for Shou Tucker. He was part of that double homicide that the police were taking care of from a few days back."

"Oh yeah, I'd heard about that," Jean mused from behind his cigarette. "If Tucker's name's on the list and he's croaked, why isn't his file in our division."

"Well at first we thought it _wasn't_ our division," Fury explained. "The murders didn't coincide with the signs of our serial killer."

"Until we looked into the files again," Bred told the blonde.

"Shou Tucker was being murdered, a large, arch-like wound in his stomach when his daughter walked in on the act as it was happening," Fury interrupted.

"The evidence was all there: the perpetrator chased the little girl and went after her and bolted, leaving both of them to die from blood loss," said Breda.

"And when we looked at the photo from the crime scene, we saw something incredibly similar to ours: the arch wasn't close to creating a full circle but he had been shot first, _then_ butchered. And it looked like someone was planning on putting a head on the circle."

"Since the daughter walked in, it must've stopped the killer from finishing the symbol!" Breda exclaimed.

"Meaning...!" Fury breathed.

"Shou Tucker is a victim of our serial killer, too!"

The rest of the office sat in silence, processing the information. Finally, Roy Mustang blinked away the incredulity, standing from his desk. "Good work, Fury, Breda," he congratulated. He plucked his coat off the back of his chair, making for the door. "Men, divulge the rest of the information to Detective Hawkeye. I have a few errands to run. Hopefully I'll be back before closing."

As he slammed the door behind him, Fury sighed, looking to Breda. "You think he'd be at least a little impressed..."

Breda merely shrugged.

_.Siste_.

"Lusty, when can I come out of this cage?"

Gluttony's voice was pitiful, but Lust had always had a soft spot for the poor slug.

Reaching in between the iron bars of his prison, the beautiful woman pouted. "Soon," she told him sympathetically...or as sympathetic as a cold-blooded killer could be. Her lips curling into a devilish smile, she patted his cheek. "Did you enjoy your meal?"

"Yes," Gluttony cooed. "The Tucker dog was delicious." Drool oozed from his hanging tongue as he lapped up the final remnants of Shou Tucker's pet canine.

"Good." Withdrawing from Gluttony's cage, she opened the door in the spare closet that the owners used to store booze when their hideaway had been a bar. Now, it was just a dusty, neglected basement; a perfect place for murderers to linger. Inside, she watched a young man writhe, his hands bound up above his head. As she pulled the chain to illuminate the dusty closet, he squirmed harder, trying to free himself of his bonds. His screams for help were choked by a bar rag tied around his mouth.

Lust reached up onto the shelf for her knife, flicking it open and eyeing the man. He was some drunkard without a family. Nobody would miss him.

And certainly, such a man wouldn't miss his finger.

Wordlessly, the beauty stepped forward, reaching up above his ties and effortlessly sliced off his ring finger, not noticing as he sweat and cried in pain. "My friend is hungry," she muttered before shutting the door and leaving him in the dark once more.

Lust tossed the appendage to the hungry beast in the cage. Greed looked up from the playing cards in his hand, quirking his head. "What's with the get-up?"

Lust smoothed out her dress. It was new; black with sleeves that sat lazily around her forearm, and a red sash cinching at her hourglass waist. "I've got a date."

"Not with that muscle-head again," he shook his head. "When're you gonna dump the poor bastard?"

"He's pertinent to the mission," Lust defended softly.

"Know what _isn't_ pertinent to the mission? Getting his di-."

"That's enough," she silenced in a sultry but deadly manor. "He has connections to Mustang. I'm leaving."

"Alright," he waved absently.

"If Gluttony gets hungry, his food is in the pantry."

"The screaming, bloody man is in the pantry," Greed nodded. "Gotch'a."

Lust ascended the staircase, pulling her hair up onto her head, letting tendrils of ebony hair hang around her face, creating a soft frame any woman would envy. It was only a few blocks before she was staring at the large red awning of a Xingese restaurant, the unique smells of the traditional cuisine permeating the air.

Outside, Jean Havoc stood waiting in his finest suit. He handed her a rose, smiling, his mouth without a cigarette for once. "Heh, I got this for you," he grinned. "Happy fifth date."

She took it, pressing it to her nose delicately. "Thank you, Jean. It's beautiful."

A gentle blush tinted his cheeks, barely noticeable. "Want to go in?"

"Please," she nods, taking his arm in her hand.

As the two settle down into the plush cushions of a cozy Xingese restaurant, he eyes her happily.

"Jean," she initiates, her lips falling from her glass of wine. "Tell me what you do for work."

"Oh, I work for a detective agency."

"Really," she gasped pretending to be fascinated. Expecting an answer she already knew, she asked, "It wouldn't happen to be that Mustang one, would it?"

"It would," he confirmed, nodding happily.

"What's he like? Mustang, I mean." Lust settled her chin in her palm. "I've heard he's an interesting man to work with."

"You have no idea," Jean laughed.

Feigning a very believable laugh, she patiently listened for something useful, a smile on her face and an evil glint in her eye.

* * *

**So I'm glad to say I actually have a plan for this story now. It was pretty aimless at first, but now everything is going to start to come together and make sense.**

**Thanks for reading! I hope you review; it makes my day. ^_^**

**Peace, L. **


	7. Information Station

**Hi there! **

**Thanks to the new followers for...well, following and the reviews and what not. ^_^ I'm glad you guys are loy-kin it. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story and ma' brain and ma' laptop.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Six: Information Station**

"Maes..."

Gracia's voice called tiredly in the darkness, her hand reaching to grasp her husband's bicep. She lazily ran her fingers along the hair on his arm, rousing him.

"Maes, Elicia's crying..."

Still no response. She felt the man's muscles tighten underneath her touch as he tried to ignore her.

"I took care of her last night..."

With a tired grunt, he rolled out of bed, casting the blankets over Gracia's head, a tiny, tired smile grazing his face as she fumbled to untangle herself.

Maes Hughes shuffled through the halls of the apartment, all dark and silent. Sometimes he loved the serenity of it, the dull quiet nights a rarity on such a prominent street in the city. But sometimes it reminded him of the cold, stolid nights waiting in buildings or trenches in Ishval, wishing he was home with his beloved girlfriend and pen pal.

Reminiscing like that made him want to turn on his heel and hope back into bed with her, and hold her tight against his chest where he knew she would be safe.

But the beckoning from his daughter obligated that he follow the noise into her bedroom, pick her up from her pint-sized bed, and rock her back to sleep.

And that's just what he did.

Patting her back as she sniffled and rubbed at her teary eyes, he bopped from foot to foot, pecking the crown of her head every so often to lull her into a state of security once again. The tears eventually ceased falling and the sniffling turned into a hiccough once in a while.

Maes drew back the sheer curtain that adorned, aiming to admire the city's twinkling lights and empty cobbled streets while Elicia soundly drooled into the skin of his shoulder. What he saw...well, he saw the lights, he saw the cobbled streets and empty, darkened window shops, but they were not empty. No, there were two people. A man and a woman. The woman sat, her face down, shrouded by the light cast overhead.

The other figure was a man; spiky black hair and a black vest topped off with white fur. And his eyes...

Maes quickly ripped the curtain shut, finally releasing the breath he didn't know he had held. Those eyes had been boring into him, right into the window of their daughter's room. Maes didn't move for a long while. He simply stood and held Elicia close in his arms before reasoning with himself that anyone who tried to break in would be dealing with him first. Plus they were on the fourth floor. No window access, unless you had a ladder, which would create quite a commotion...

Reluctantly, he placed his little girl in bed, tip-toeing back into bed with Gracia. She shimmied closer, burrowing her nose into the skin of his bare back and sighing into sleep. He held the hand she wound around his stomach, but his spare hand moved stealthily, feeling along the dresser drawer. He pulled it out silently, felt the underside of the drawer, and discreetly slid it shut again.

The gun tapped into a secret hiding spot was still, thankfully, there.

_.Siste._

Roy Mustang walked the streets alone, quite confident that Hawkeye could manage things in the shop while he was away for the night.

Of course, he would miss sleeping in her bed, but that would, unfortunately, have to be put off.

His work suit had been traded in; a quick stop home resulted in a change of clothes. He rolled up the sleeves of his button-up, no tie to distinguish him as someone other than a drunk stumbling through Amestris in the wee hours of closing time. His hat was patted snugly over his head as he walked the sidewalks, his gun tucked into the back of his pants, he blindly walked towards the one place he knew would be open.

Madame Christmas.

The doors of her establishment hadn't changed since the last time he visited them. Mustang drew back the doors, brushing past the front room and it's patrons: lonely men sprawled over plush seats and leather upholstery, wining and dining with beautiful young ladies. He didn't look. He didn't want to see the hungry eyes of those men picking apart the delicate skin of the girls he practically called family. He had a job.

Knocking on the door of his aunt, he was greeted by an informant and long time friend of his. "Roy?" she smiled, her aura lifting.

He enveloped her in a hug, chuckling as she reached to return it. "Hey, Christina," he laughed. "Is Madame Christmas in?"

"Of course," the informant chirped, leaning to grab his wrist. She tugged him inside the office, the door swinging shut behind him. "You don't have to make an appointment to see her."

As if on cue, the rotund woman sauntered out from the back room, a long cigarette perched between her lips.

"Roy," she drew in that familiar, gruff voice, affected by years of smoking. "What brings you here at such an hour?"

His voice instantly lowered. "I need some information."

"Of course," she nodded, settling down into the chair behind her small desk. She let the ashes fall into a neat crystalized ashtray. "What can I do for you?"

"Shou Tucker," Roy stated, leaning his hands on his knees. "I need to know all that you can find out about him."

"Easy," Madame Christmas wrote off. She looked at him curiously. "Is that all you needed?"

"No." Mustang stuck his hand into his pocket, unfurling a flimsy paper napkin he had quickly scribbled on. He slid it across the green pad on her desk, turning it so she could read the ink that bled into it. "I need information on all of these people as well."

"There are thirteen all together, including Tucker. I need you to find what links them together for me."

Madame Christmas sighed, putting her cigarette in the already dead pile of ashes, a testament to her habit. "You're still working that serial case, eh?"

"They've all got something in common," Mustang shook his head. "We've exhausted everything. Nothing's turned up. But these murders...they're personal. You wouldn't take the time to carve words and patterns into someone who was already dead if it was a random killing. These people are linked. And since nothing's turned up, I've come to you."

Reading the list over, Madame Christmas tucked it away, nodding as she folded her hands atop her desk. "I'll send my girls out; see what we can make of it."

Mustang sighed with relief. "Thank you." With a light smile, he stood to leave. "If you'll excuse me, I've got a-"

"Oh no you don't," the informant interrupted, baring off the exit with her slender arms. A devilish smile etched itself onto her face. "How's Elizabeth?"

"She's fine," Mustang shrugged. "In fact, I'm on my way to see her now, so if you don't mind..." He struggled with getting around Christina; as small as she was, she made up for it in strength, threefold.

"When are you going to bring her in anyway, _Roy_," she whined as he pulled at the door handle. "The other girls and I want to meet her."

Roy cast a look over his shoulder, a bit exasperated by the women that occupied the hostess building constantly trying to pry information out of _him_, like his love life was a job of theirs. "Soon."

Another informant, Regina, one who knew Roy as well as the last, crossed her arms at her seat by the bar. She was without a client tonight, for a change, which allowed her to eavesdrop on Christina's petty attempts at gossiping. "To be honest, Roy, I thought you would have ended up with that blonde in your office."

Christina positioned her body beside her co-worker. "You mean the Hawkeye woman?"

"That's her; that's the one," Regina nodded.

"Aw yeah, she seemed like Roy's type," another chimed in as her man for the night busied himself with a glass of liquor.

"Uh-huh," Christina dismissed, tucking her auburn hair with an aura of total confidence. "Elizabeth's got to be the only woman for Roy. Look at his face when you talk about her!"

Roy simply smiled, heading for the door. He held his hand out in a quick wave. "Goodbye, ladies," he called in a rather promiscuous tone.

A chorus of women bid him farewell in a unison that frightened the clientele.

_.Siste._

It was two in the morning when Riza's phone rang on the stand beside her kitchen table.

The woman never grumbled; she dutifully marched to the device, picking it up and pressing it to her ear, asking "Hello?" in a most professional manner.

"Hey." Roy's voice made her body relax. Thank god it wasn't some foul news, like the kind she had received several times in her sleep.

"Sir," she exhaled softly. Her brows furrowed as she looked towards the clock through the thickness of the lightless room. "Why are you calling me at this hour?"

"I wanted to tell you that I was coming over," he excused. His voice stalled a moment before he cleared his throat, asking much less confidently, "If that's alright with you."

"Of course, sir," she said, smiling to herself. "I had just assumed you'd gone home."

"I had to run a few...errands," he said cryptically. Then he let a bought of laughter burst into the receiver. "But, I _did_ get a little drunk and bought a bunch of flowers. Mind taking them off my hands?"

Looking around her kitchen, she laughed very quietly. "You know I don't have a vase, sir."

"Well, then I'll buy you one."

"The shops are closed, Roy. It's nighttime."

"Ah, right." He nodded to himself as he leant against the glass panes of the phone booth. "Well, I'll be over soon. Get some sleep; I know where you keep the key so I can let myself in."

"Good night, Roy," she said in a tone that surprised even herself.

Seemingly taken aback, he laughed lowly into the phone. "I'll see you soon."

When Roy quietly pushed the door back to let himself in just fifteen minutes later, he expected to be greeted by nothingness. If anything, he anticipated Black Hayate to have been awoken by the clobbering of his shoes, and the beast would jump around and scratch at his heels excitedly, welcoming his master's friend home, no matter what the hour.

Instead, he found Riza wide awake, sitting on the table, looking at him expectantly.

_.Siste_.

"Hughes," a voice bellowed. It was a majestic voice, one that brought along the promise of a very carefully waxed mustache and a glorious sparkle.

"Hey, Armstrong, what can I do for ya?" Maes grinned, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

The hulking police officer held a clipboard in his hands. It looked hilariously tiny compared to the rest of him. "It's come to my attention that you're coming upon a very important date in your career."

"Am I?" Hughes quirked his head.

"Yes," Armstrong nodded. "According to the record, you're coming upon your twenty-fifth year in the force. And at such a young age, too."

"Well, listen, Armstrong, I don't want to make _too big o_-!"

Maes gasped for a breath of hair as the bald man scooped him into his arms, rocking spastically, tears of joy streaming down his face. "THIS IS A MOST GLORIOUS OCCASION, OFFICER. IT MUST BE CELEBRATED BY ALL OF AMESTRIS TO COMMEMORATE YOUR SHINING ACHIEVEMENT AND DEDICATION._"_

_"_Thats-ugh-really not necessary," Maes tried to choke out.

"Nonsense!" the buff man insisted, letting Maes Hughes to his feet. "Captain Bradley himself has already stated that a celebration is in order."

"A celebration, huh?" Maes grinned, his fingers running along the scruff on his face, a mischievous glint in his eye.

* * *

**Sorry about the delay! I've been distracted by crap-hat thesis papers and junk. -_- In any case, it's nice to work on this story finally. This seems like it's kind of more filler or some biz, but I promise I ACTUALLY HAVE A PLAN NOW, SO. THINGS WILL HAPPEN. SHIT WILL GO DOWN. PROMISE. :)**

**Peace, L. **


	8. A Fifth and a Father

**Hey guys!**

**I hope you're enjoying the story as much as I like writing it. Even though it's becoming my neglected child. ;u;**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story and ma' brain and ma' laptop.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: A Fifth and a Father**

"Last photo, boss," Fury sighed, his voice echoing in the tiny private cathedral as he held his camera up to his glassed eyes.

"Alright, Detective," Roy nodded, flipping through Breda's neatly constructed notepad with the stout man.

The church was lit with beautiful colors, all translucent reds and yellows, purples and blues, pinks and greens, streaming unto the faces of Mustang's Investigations and the bloody, swollen body of Father Cornello.

Among the pews and elegant curtains, the priest's body lay in a pool of dark blood, the front of his robes torn open by a knife, his skin ripped into Latin.

"Anything suspicious?" Havoc asks, fiddling with a cigarette. He waves the tobacco at the body. "I mean, besides the obvious."

"No," Fury shakes his spiky-haired head. "The guy's office was squeaky clean."

"His reputation isn't though," Havoc spoke up. The others gave him a curious look. "A girl I was dating a while back was a big fanatic of Cornello. Said he was some healing prophet sent straight from God. Said he could resurrect the dead."

"Sounds more like a cult to me," Roy grumbled.

"Maybe so," Riza nodded, unfurling the tarp. "But that doesn't change the fact that Cornello was linked to the others."

"That's right," Mustang nodded. "Prophet or no prophet, he still fell like the rest of them."

Littelest Kain Fury sighed, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose. He knelt down beside the body, ignoring the spattered red across the hand-painted church tiles. As he tilted his head to examine some unimportant speckle on the underside of the Father's hip, he paused. Something caught the light...well, rather in a negative way. It didn't glint or shimmer; it got dimmer. Curiously, he followed the light, looking with sheer astonishment as the number 5 appeared on the tile, smeared in the invisible oil of a human finger.

"H-hey, Havoc," Fury gestured. "Do you have the fingerprint kit?"

"Ah, yeah, it's right back here," the blonde nodded, a bit confused. He pointed to the pew with his thumb. "I can get it for ya'."

Fury nodded fervently. The moment the wooden box entered his possession, he tore the bottle of black dust from the inside, as well as a brush. Bending down, he carefully let the hairs of the brush dance over an area around the inconspicuous '5,' his breath held between his teeth. Taking out the print tape, he smeared it over the tile before carefully peeling it back, holding the substance up to the light, and grinning in self-satisfaction.

"5 Lab," Fury read confidently. "Helsinki S-T..."

"What is it?" Roy inquired, stooping beside his detective to look at the lifted words.

"It looks like a street address..." Riza murmured.

"5 Lab...Helsinki Street?" Fury voiced.

"Oh!" Havoc snapped his fingers, a knowing smile peeling across his face. "The Fifth Laboratory."

The faces of his comrades begged for an explanation.

"This girl I'm going with," Havoc smiled, adjusting the collar of his shirt in the most non-chalant way. "She bartend's there."

"She does?" Roy beams.

"That's what she tells me, yes, sir," Havoc grinned.

"Yeah..." Breda drew thoughtfully, rubbing at the scruff on his chin. "It's a bar up in West Amestris, isn't it?"

"I think so," Havoc nodded. The blonde patted Kain's back happily. "Nice spotting, Four Eyes!"

Fury laughed bashfully. "Just doing my job," he grinned.

"Yeah, man, how the hell'd you spot that?" Breda wondered.

"I think a better question is why would someone who was dying write an address on the floor?" Riza interrupted.

Roy nodded, plucking his jacket off the back of one of the pews. "We're finally starting to ask the right questions." He gestured to Father Cornello. "Havoc?"

"Right, sir," the muscular man affirmed, reaching down to pull the sheet over the figure's body.

The six detectives shrugged their jackets onto their shoulders, pushing back the meticulously carved cathedral doors and letting themselves out into the orangey dusk that blanketed the city.

"So, what now?" Falman asked, causing the others to cease mid-step on the sidewalk. Under the curious eyes of his coworkers, the quiet man shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, we have this lead...now what?"

A devilish grin etched itself onto Roy's face.

"Anyone up for a drink?"

_.Siste._

Sheska sighed contentedly, relishing in the silence that had started to engulf her life.

Thomas- or should she say _Greed_- hadn't called on her to do much else since they met in the dead of night, exchanging few pleasantries and a little black book. A few heart-stopping visits to the bookstore was all that had occurred, his dark eyes lingering over her face knowingly. She would always freeze up behind the counter, her mind blank and her heart caught in her throat. And then he would simply leave. He would just...she sighed happily, naively; he would just check out a book or two and leave.

Maybe, she hoped, maybe he didn't need her anymore.

Sheska pulled on the handle of the bookstore, pulling extra tight to ensure the lock was engaged. She had agreed to let Gracia cut out early in exchange for the promise of a slice of her famously decadent apple pie the next time she made it. The young woman smiled at her reflection in the darkened windows, wrapping her scarf around her neck and setting off for home.

Home was a tiny apartment complex on the Eastern side of the waterway that ran through Amestris. It was a noticeably shadier, cheaper neighborhood in the city, a place she could afford on a bookstore worker's salary. Even with all of the income she had been earning on her side job, she allowed her nerves to get the better of her and she quit, leaving the money and nerves in the dust.

Stepping into the lobby of the apartment complex, she bid the part-time security guard goodnight as she passed him, headed for her mailbox on the wall.

Carrying the mail up to her apartment, she grimaced as she flipped through each envelope. _Bills, bills, bills_... she lamented.

A little golden envelope immediately turned her frown upside-down.

She stuffed the junk mail under her armpit, smiling excitedly as she peeled open the envelope, revealing a pristine-looking sheet of blue and white paper: an invitation to a congratulatory gala for the esteemed Maes Hughes.

"Gracia invited me?" she asked herself aloud. "That's so sweet..."

Her musings didn't last long though, as she turned her attention back to the remaining letters and statements under her arm.

In an array of bills and paychecks, she found an intimidating slip of torn paper, the red ink bolstered into it in the most unsettling way.

'_Sheska, meet me at the Fifth. You know where to go. ~"Thomas"_'

* * *

**Phew. Sorry guys, that it took me so long to update. I've been in the middle of moving. -_- Excuses, excuses.**

**Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter, and now that I actually know what I'm doing with this story, I'm excited to finish it up! Oh, and reviews are always welcome *nudge nudge wink wink*.**

**Peace, L.**


	9. Undercover Brotherand Sister

**Hey guys!**

**Sorry about the delays all the time. Really, I am. -_- IF YOU'RE STILL READING THIS, I COMMEND YOU. Because you have the patience of a saint and you're awesome.**

**Disclaimer: I own nada except the story idea.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**8. Undercover Brother...and Sister**

Havoc groaned, his arms becoming heavy after being held up over his head for so long.

"Quit moving, will you?" Fury scolded distractedly.

"How much longer is this going to take?" the blonde whined.

Fury ripped a piece of tape with his teeth before laying it over a wire that had been draped across Jean's chest. With his mouth free, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Almost done. Just one more piece..." He tore through another piece, using it to bolster the small microphone to his comrade's skin.

"Alright," Fury waved, stepping back. "You can put them down now."

With a deep exhale, Jean flung his arms to his side, feeling the blood rush back into the appendages. "Remind me what this is all about again?"

"For the tenth time, man," Breda said, "we're gonna be listening in on the mission tonight."

"Right." Jean scratched his head before grabbing at a his shirt, pulling it over his bare torso. "What happens if we run into my girl? She works there, remember?"

"Go on like nothing's wrong," Fury stated, fiddling with a radio that was connected to Havoc's microphone. "You can chit-chat. Use Riza as a good excuse."

"Yeah," Falman nodded. "Tell her you wanted to introduce her to your sister."

"Yeah, well, I never told her I had a sister," Jean retorted, crossing his arms.

"As long as you didn't tell her you _didn't_ have a sister, you're good as gold," Breda insisted.

Jean sighed, annoyed that this mission could possibly cost him one of his best relationships. "Well, where _is_ my 'sister' anyways?"

"Getting ready," Breda nodded in the direction of the staircase.

_.Siste_.

Roy silently watched as Riza slipped the gun holster up her leg, hiding it beneath her long, dark skirt.

"Nervous?" Roy asked.

She looked at him curiously before a small smile pried on her lips, her hands turning back to the holster. "Not particularly." She paused a moment. "Are you?"

"I have total faith in you and Havoc," Roy replied from his seat at the little table. "It's everyone else out there I don't trust."**  
**

Crossing the room, she placed her hand on his cheek, and he relished the feeling of her warm palm on his face. He held it in his own hand, looking up at her with a well-concealed worry; a worry she saw through as if it were sheer lace.

"You can't hide those puppy dog eyes, sir," she sighs, drawing away from the warmth of his fingers. "I know you too well."

He shut his eyes as she placed a gentle, reassuring kiss on his forehead, relishing the feel of her lips.

"Just promise me something," he murmured as she made for the staircase. She ceased wrapping herself up in her long jacket, golden eyes open to his words. "Don't die."

Somehow, she relaxed. "I'll try my hardest, sir."

_.Siste._

"Ah, take a left here," Havoc said, pointing as Riza drove the car. "It should be right up the street, I think...Ah! There it is."

The blonde woman pulled into a clear parking space alongside the curb, placing the glasses on the bridge of her nose, causing Havoc to chuckle.

"You look like a braniac," he poked. "Or Fury."

"Well, these are his spare glasses..." she drew, a tiny smile on her face. They each slid out of the dark model car, relishing in how beautiful the Amestris night was.

"Looks like everyone's out tonight," Havoc commented, taking a puff from his dying smoke. When Riza didn't say anything back- no smart remark or sarcastic jilt geared towards the muscular blonde- Havoc sighed knowingly. "What's troubling you, Hawkeye? Did the boss pull something stupid again?"

Riza's eyes shot open, her entire person being taken aback by his inquiries. "I..." She was never at a loss for words. The detective narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "How did you know? About us?"

Havoc laughed. "I knew it!" Taking a final draw, he flicked the butt into the wet gutter, the embers dying out in the dark-tarred street. "Hawkeye, I've known you and the boss for as long as I can remember. You two are some of my closest friends. I can tell."

Riza released the breath she didn't realize she was holding, brushing her hair back off her shoulders. "I'd been so confident we were being secret enough, I didn't realize the Detective and I were so _obvious_."

"I wouldn't say it's _obvious_," Havoc drew. "But I've noticed the boss has been suspiciously _relaxed_ lately, if you catch my- _oof_!"

Hawkeye's arm caught him in the right pectoral, a light warning strike. He bit back his snickering as she sighed, the two turning down the street staircase, and heading into the underground bar.

The Fifth Laboratory was a darkened bar, littered with people from every walk of life. Riza silently noted the posh-looking politicians, the dirty men with stained clothing and cuts on their faces, the crowd of everyday workers, fresh from the daily grind. They gathered around tables, glasses in hand, chatting. To her, besides the obvious mingling of social classes, it seemed like an average bar.

"Hey," Havoc shouted above the din, grasping Riza's forearm. "There's that girl I've been telling you about! The one I've been seeing!"

"Havoc, remember, this _is_ a mission," Riza whispered as she was toted through the establishment, the acrid smoke and stench of whiskey.

He ignored her, snagging a bar stool for himself, Hawkeye much preferring to stand at attention beside the oak wood bar. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Havoc smiled through each call. "Solaris!"

A girl at the glassy shelves of liquor whirled around, her black hair swinging around her slender arms. She smiled at Havoc, racing to the wooden counter to meet up with her lover. Leaning over the polished wood, she placed a soft kiss on his lips. "Jean," she sighed happily. "You came to see me at work?"

"I couldn't stay away," he chuckled. "And besides I wanted you to meet my sister."

He thumbed to the blonde standing beside him and 'Solaris' quirked her head. "Jean, you didn't tell me you had a sister," she said uncertainly. Riza frowned. There was something in this woman's dark eyes. Familiarity, recognition; something that made the sling gun on the detective's leg feel much heavier.

Riza reached across the bar, staving the suspicion. "Elizabeth," she introduced.

"Solaris," the ebony-haired woman replied. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you," Riza shook her head. Noticing the dumbstruck look on Havoc's face, she had a not-so-faint feeling the mission was falling upon her shoulders very quickly. She rested a quick hand on Havoc's shoulder. "I'm going to go to the ladies' room."

"Oh, sure," Havoc nodded, scratching his head. "Uh, I'll wait here for you, I guess."

Riza nodded, moving away as quickly from the moonstruck man as she could. All at once, she felt the walls close in on her as well as a gratuitous feeling of over-awareness wash over her. Her eyes scanned the faces of every patron, every drunkard and woman draped in chiffon and man looking to score a good time with a not-so respectable girl. Sharp noses and baggy eyes and plump lips. Shady faces in booths.

She smirked internally. The shadier, the better.

Brushing her hair to one shoulder, she stuck her hands in her pockets, moving as smoothly as possible through the crowd and smoke, finding herself standing before a dark corner booth, two bodies lounging and boozing on the thick red velvet.

The first man, a man with a long black ponytail and two pathetic wisps of hair, barely noticed her, though not out of lack of observance. He was merely ignoring her, uninterested in what a seemingly unimportant woman had to say. He sat back in the booth further, as if trying to distance himself and his tasteless white suit from Riza. The other, however, a man with spiked black hair and a leather vest adorned with white fur and rather raggedly sharpened teeth, looked at her as if she were a meal. The hunger practically shone in his eye.

"Well, hey there, gal," the second man greeted pleasantly. "What brings you to a table like this in a _place_ like this?"

Riza merely smirked, pulling her glasses off the bridge of her nose. For effect, she batted her eyelashes once or twice; after years of this sneaky, undercover world, she found that she wasn't above resorting to using her sex to draw out the idiocy in men.

"I was hoping I could...arrange a little something," she drew. Brandishing her glasses thoughtfully, she tilted her head back and forth. "A little...get together."

The second man grinned ravenously, sliding aside in the booth, dragging his glass with him. "Sounds interesting," he grinned.

She slid into the booth, unraveling her jacket. She had resorted to sporting a maroon dress that had black beads swaying along dark fringes. It was something that her friend, Rebecca, had called a 'flapper' dress, and, in contrast to her light skin, made her out to be what many called a 'sheba.'

The second man whistled. "You've got it, doll."

Riza ignored the urge to smack him upside the head, instead smiling graciously. "So I've been told." Folding her hands, she let out a serious, sultry sigh.

"So what brings you out this far, sweetheart?" the second man asked.

She smirked. "A little birdie told me that I could swing by here and meet a special man."

"Well, hey, I'm a special ma-," the spiky-haired fellow flirtatiously began, only to be silenced by his white-suited companion.

"And who might that be?" he asked, voice leeching death and suspicion.

"A man by the name of Charles Violeta," Riza replied, expecting a certain answer.

"Aw, that guy?" the second man asked, tilting his head. "Yeah, Charles Violeta up and died, didn't ya' hear? It was all over the papers."

Riza feigned a fettered look. "That's a shame. I suppose the books are done then, right?"

"Not necessarily," the first man quelled.

The blonde looked interested. "Really?"

"Yes, we've acquired a new bookie," the white-suited man nodded, folding his hands thoughtfully. "A young woman. Very bright, mathematically speaking."

"Yeah, but street smarts...well she's about as dumb as a door nail," the second man snorted, gulping at his alcohol.

"Do you know where I could find this...?" Riza led.

"Ah ah, not so fast," the first man shushed. "You may know some about books, but you've failed to obtain the correct information, my dear. She's off duty tonight."

Riza masked her face in disappointment. "Well," she huffed, a bit annoyed. "When will she be back?"

The second man grinned. "Every Thursday and Tuesday, the shop's open... Tell you what," he began, digging around in his pocket. He pulled out a thin black book, and, when unfolded, Riza noted the names scrawled out, all of the anagrams that Charles Violeta had kept, plus many more. "You tell me your name and I'll keep you in mind, sweetheart."

"Elizabeth," Riza told him. "Elizabeth Colonel."

"Solf J. Kimblee," the white-suited man introduced, dipping his head.

"G," the spiky-haired fellow stated. "G Thomas."

"Well," Riza nodded, standing and shrugging her jacket over her well-covered back. "Thank you boys. I'll see you around."

"We're counting on it," Kimblee smiled maliciously. "Ms. Colonel."

As she parted from the table, she saw a glint of something in their eyes, the same as she saw in Solaris's: familiarity.

Hugging her jacket tighter around herself, she told Havoc she suddenly felt rather tired and stepped outside as rapidly as she could, dashing home as the air in Amestris chilled the cold sweat on her neck. Her blood was rushing in her veins, the terror of feeling watched crawling like venomous bugs across her skin. Even with these layers, she felt unnecessarily vulnerable.

As she pushed around the corner, leaving the car for Havoc, she bumped the shoulder of a young woman, who instantaneously began to apologize in the most rabid way.

"I-I-I'm so sorry, ma'am! Are you alright?" the young girl quivered.

Riza nodded, huffing the anxiety out of her body. "Yes, I'm alright. Are you, though? You seem a bit shaken up."

"Oh, ha ha," the girl chuckled nervously, adjusting the thick glasses on her nose. "I'm just a little late to an appointment somewhere."

Riza quirked her head. "At this time of night?"

"Well, it's pretty last minute," the girl shrugged, her body shaking as she spoke. Even through the glare the streetlights cast on her glasses, Riza could see the bags under her eyes from lack of sleep.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"Y-yes. It's just around the corner. The Fifth Laboratory."

"Oh," Riza nodded quietly. "Well, it was nice meeting you..."

"Sheska," the girl introduced, clutching her scarf tightly at her neck. "M-my name's Sheska."

"Sheska," Riza nodded. After apologizing shortly, the blonde detective turned on her heel, none the wiser to the sinister nature of the business within the Fifth Laboratory.

_.Siste._

"There's the lady of the hour," Kimblee grinned, holding his hands out in recognition.

Sheska gulped down the bile in her throat. And here she was, thinking she was out of the woods...

Greed nodded his head, gesturing for her to join the two men in the booth. The spiky-haired man quirked his head as she shivered beside him, her knuckles white as they gripped her scarf around her neck. "What's the matter, Sheska?" Greed hummed, hand weaving up to hold hers. She quickly jerked away, hanging her head. "Feeling a bit jumpy?"

"A drink would remedy that," Kimblee resolved smoothly, waving to the black-haired woman at the bar. "Our associate can take care of that."

Sheska watched through tired eyes as the bartender stroked the face of a muscular blonde man before a drink was brought to the table, the sensual ebony-haired girl swaying her hips as she walked. The glass was placed before the timid young woman, and Sheska couldn't help but notice that all three people at the booth stared at her as if she were food to these people, even as the liquor was poured into her cup.

"Solaris," the bartender introduced.

"Sheska," she replied.

The bartender smirked. "I know very well who _you _are," she murmured cryptically before tucking the bottle back into her arm.

"W-why'd you call me in?" Sheska ventured as soon as the bartender had sauntered away. "It's not like th-there's anything going on t-tonight, right?"

"True," Kimblee nodded. "But we have a little favor to ask of you Sheska. A little..." He waved his hand in trivial thought. "A little overtime."

"You'll be compensated, of course," Greed added.

Sheska pressed her lips to the glass, taking a tiny sip. It was wine. She set it aside; she had never been much of a fan. "W-what would I..."

"You must understand," Kimblee interrupted. "We're counting on you to do something far beyond book-keeping."

"What would I be doing?"

"We understand that you've been invited to that Hughes fellow's gala. Am I correct?"

Sheska pondered lying to these people, but just looking into the glassy, ravenous eyes of the people who ran this establishment- the face and underside- and she knew better. "Y-yes."

"We'll need you to conceal this," Greed said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small vile of red liquid. Sheska plucked the tube up carefully, watching the redness slosh around inside.

"What...what is it?" she asked, a bit bewildered by its vivid color.

"Philosphorum," Kimblee told her. "It's a highly toxic poison."

Sheska held it closer, squinting at the toxin. "Wh-wh-what would y-you want me to..."

Greed slid a folded slip of paper across the table to her, and she quietly unfurled it, the color in her face disappearing with every passing letter.

"As you can see, it requires a fair amount of, well...courage, and if you're unable to do the job, we'll have to find another," Greed informed her, as lightly as if it were of some personal inconvenience to him.

Sheska crumpled the paper, her anxious nerves finally breaking. All at once, she felt sick to her stomach and strong. "I've seen what you do to people who refuse to comply with you," she said, her voice, for the first time in weeks, even and unwavering. "Father Cornello was no mistake, was he?"

Kimblee's smile, which had momentarily disappeared, rebounded. "No, I suppose if you know what to look for, it wouldn't seem that way, would it? Cronello dug his own grave and deliberately disobeyed the policies of this establishment. Those who tempt us must pay a steep price."

Sheska frowned. "So if I refuse..."

"You will be dealt with as swiftly as the others," Kimblee threatened.

"And if I comply..."

Greed grinned a toothy grin. "Well, then, your allegiance to us is still valid and you'll be protected by the Sins." He slung his arm around her tiny frame. "You'll live to see another day."

Sheska grimaced still. _But what about after that? How long will they own me? _she thought bitterly.

In a swift, desperate motion to get away, she thrust the tube into her pocket and pushed away from Greed's hold, hurrying to find solace somewhere else.

_How long will I be their slave?_

* * *

**Oi vey, sorry about these stupid breaks in between each chapter. I pulled a dumb move and started another story while doing this one and, well, I kind of got jumbled. -_-**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing and adding and what not. It makes my week knowing people are reading and if you have any feedback or guesses I'd love to hear them!**

**Peace, L. **


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